


The God Who Loved a Demon

by Kahvi



Series: Thor and the Demon [6]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M, Mutilation, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 10:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: Do stories ever end? If we want them to, perhaps, but even then, rarely so. Another visit to the universe of Thor and the Demon - and the young son of a Jarl.





	The God Who Loved a Demon

Stories do not really end. Sometimes they begin, and without a middle they would not be stories at all, but an end? Where does the universe end? Though in fairness, it should be said that the rainbow has an end, and like a story, it is the bridge between the moral and godly realm; the Bifrost, guarded by fair Heimdall at the gates of Valhalla, kingdom of the gods. 

But this is not a story of Valhalla. 

In a village in the North, there was a Jarl, and the Jarl had him a son. No wife had he, for she had died giving birth, leaving him with just one heir. And it was said that the gods took pity on the Jarl, and gave to his son all the strength and wit and cunning of all the Jarl’s children never born. True it was that none could best the boy in feats of strength, and none was a better swordsman than the Jarl’s son; strongest and fairest in the village. 

As so it was that the Jarl’s son grew to manhood, and would go to Viking like his peers. But his father, the Jarl, feared for his only son. “Strong may you be,” worried the Jarl, “and true it is that none can best you in the art of fighting, but the lands to the South and the islands to the West are peopled with barbarians and monsters. I cannot risk the life of my son and heir.” 

The Jarl’s son raged and swore at this, pleading with his father, but the Jarl would not be moved. “Good father,” said the Jarl’s son, “can you not see reason? I am young and strong. I would bring gold and glory to our village. What will it take to change your heart?”

The Jarl thought long and hard on this, and at last, he had an answer. “Very well,” quoth he. “If your arm is so solid that it cannot be cut off, I would let you go to Viking.”

The Jarl’s son heeded his words. As it would happen, there as a smith in the Jarl’s seat, a slave from the Emerald Isles, and so cunning and skilled was he in his arts, that it was rumored the Jarl would set him free, to honor his great works. To this smith, the Jarl’s son now went, and pleaded his case. “Slave, my father would not let me go to Viking, less my arm is so solid it cannot be cut off. Can you make me a bracer that will grant me this strength?”

The smith was a proud man, and did not like how the Jarl’s son addressed him. “Yes,” quoth he, “I can grant you this. But first I must measure your arm. Lay down here on the side of the forge, and rest it on my anvil, so I may look at it.” The Jarl’s son did as he asked, and no sooner had he laid down, did the smith clamp down iron bands around his wrist and shoulder, trapping him.

“Now I will coat your arm in steel,” said the smith, “so none may cut it off.” He pointed to the molten steel, ready on the fire. 

The Jarl’s son cried out in fear, pleading his case. “Good smith, I beg you, do not coat my arm in steel! My flesh would burn, and I would perish from the heat.”

The smith, hearing the tone of respect and the wise words, nodded. “Just so. What good is an arm that cannot be cut off? If an arrow caught it, you would still be in pain. If evil magic was thrown at you, you would still have to ward it off. No, I will make you an arm-guard of strongest steel, and if your arm is cut off, I will make you a new one.”

The Jarl’s son saw the wisdom in this, and returned to his father with the news. The Jarl listened well and long, then quoth he: “that’s as good as good enough can be, no better can you offer me, that I see.” 

“So will you let me go go Viking,” asked the Jarl’s son. 

“If you can find a comrade in arms who is stronger, broader, taller and fairer than you, I will let you go to Viking,” quoth the Jarl. 

The Jarl’s son’s heart darkened at this, for he knew that in the village, there was none stronger, broader, taller and fairer than he. But to Viking he wanted to go, so try he must. 

On a farm nearby there lived a boy, of age with the Jarl’s son. The two were friends and companions, and the Jarl’s son valued the boy’s keen mind and fair judgement. “If I put the problem to him,” the Jarl’s son thought, “I might find he has an answer.” And so he found his friend, and told him of his quandary. 

His friend listened well and long, and after a time, he took his leave. The Jarl’s son let him go, for he knew that wisdom was sometimes long in coming. And lo and behold, after a day and a night, the boy returned, stronger, broader, taller and fairer than he. “I do believe,” said the Jarl’s son, “that none in the village can best you. Come, let us go to my father.”

To his father the Jarl they went, and the Jarl looked for well and long, then quoth he: “that’s as good as good enough can be, no better can you offer me, that I see.”

“So will you let me go go Viking,” asked the Jarl’s son. 

“If you can promise to return from death, I would let you go to Viking,” quoth the Jarl. 

“Good father,” said the Jarl’s son, “none can return from death. Should I die in battle, a hero’s death awaits me in Valhalla.” 

“And what good is Valhalla to me? I will not go there. No, promise me that you will return from death, and I will let you go.”

Defeated, the Jarl’s son left his father. But his friend, who had been listening, stopped him as he left the gates of the seat. “If your father would have it, I will swear to return you from Valhalla, should you die in battle.”

The Jarl’s son saw the wisdom in this, and so they went to his father. The Jarl thought for well and long, then quoth he: “that’s as good as good enough can be, no better can you offer me, that I see.”

“So will you let me go go Viking,” asked the Jarl’s son. 

“Yes,” quoth the Jarl, who was a wise man, all told, “all the Aesir willing, I will let you go to Viking.” 

And so, the Jarl’s son went to Viking, and his friend, the boy who grew to a giant, went with him. They sailed to foreign lands, and together they did battle, and fought bravely. Strong though they both were, their enemies were myriad, their swords sharp and their arrows speedy. Just as the Jarl had feared, a fierce barbarian caught the Jarl’s son unawares, and his arm was cut off at the shoulder. Though he still stood, the loss of blood was too much for his body to bear, and soon he fell lifeless to the ground. His friend, the brave warrior, the boy who bargained with the people of the woods, sat with him, waiting for the Valkyries to take him off to Valhalla. “Strong those winged swordswomen may be,” thought the warrior, “but my will and my love is stronger.” Alas, the battle was long and hard, and the boy, exhausted from keeping pillagers away from the Jarl’s son’s body, fell asleep. And so it was that he missed the brave Valkyries taking his friend’s soul to Valhalla. 

When the Jarl’s son woke, he was in Valhalla, tended to by servants fair of face and body. All his wishes were their commands, and sweet ale and mead and good meat was given him. For days and weeks, he feasted in the halls of Odin and the Aesir, wanting for nothing, save his right arm, which was left on the battlefield. And yet, his heart was heavy, for he missed the love of his friend, the brave warrior, the farmer who would go to Viking. 

One day, as he roamed the halls of Valhalla, brooding and lost in thought, did he come across Thor, the mighty god of thunder. He did not bow or kneel, for all are equal in the Hall of Heroes. “Mightly Thor,” quoth the Jarl’s son, “why do you look so stricken? Is not your wife, the brave Sif, she of the golden hair, mistress of all the realms, here? Are you not the lord of this manner, second only to the All-Father, great Odin? What lack you, that your face looks torn and stricken?” 

“Good warrior,” quoth Thor, “I miss my lost love; a demon who helped me find my life’s companion, Sif, in the underworld. But he is lost to me now, and no more shall I see him.”

“I too have a lost love,” confessed the Jarl’s son, “a warrior, stronger than any in my village; a young man who would give his life for mine.”

“If he is a warrior,” mused Thor, “then he will come to Valhalla, if he is slain in honorable combat.”

“You speak wisely,” agreed the Jarl’s son. “But that may be years yet to come.” Still, this news soothed his mind and rekindled the hope in his heart. He would wait, however long it took. 

After this, Thor and the Jarl’s son spoke often, taking solace in one another’s company. Each could see the pain of the other, and the fair Sif rejoiced that her beloved friend and soul’s companion had a close friend in whom to share his grief. And so it came to be that Thor and Sif would take the Jarl’s son with them when they hunted, and Thor, seeing the Jarl’s son’s skill with a sword, even one-handed, asked if he would join him on his journeys to the East, killing Jotun. Yes, the Jarl’s son surely would, and so it was done. 

Many are the tales could be told of their great deeds; the slaying of the sky-demons, the battle with the dark elves, and the demise of the Red Skull, to name but some, but that is for another time, and another story. The years flowed past, and never did Thor forget his demon love, nor the Jarl’s son his brave young warrior. Then, one day many years hence, Thor and the Jarl’s son returned to Valhalla to yells of outrage and shots of vengeance. “I hear the voice of my love,” said Thor, astounded and in thrall, “I must go to him.” 

No sooner had Thor run off, did the Jarl’s son notice a figure in the distance, outside the crowd of people that had gathered in the halls. It was his love, the boy who went to Viking, the warrior who bargained with the people of the woods. The Jarl’s son ran to him, but when he went to embrace him with his arm, the warrior turned away. 

“Many years have passed since last I saw you. I have promised my heart to a smith, the one who your father freed; the man who helped you go to Viking.” 

Stricken, the Jarl’s son was ready to protest, but he saw the honor in his love’s words, and the conviction in his eyes. For that noble heart was what he loved the most. “Very well,” quoth he, “then I shall not stand in your way. But what is this consternation?”

“There is a demon,” quoth the warrior, “a poor creature who is hopelessly in love with Thor, the God of Thunder. The smith and I helped him return to Valhalla. But in his mad ardour, he cut the hair off the head of the fair Sif, and blamed the blameless smith. Now Thor has returned, he will deal with the beast.”  

The Jarl’s son hurried to the center of the crowd, where Thor stood, the demon bowed before him, his eyes shining with tears from the joy love and the despair of betrayal. And the Jarl’s son bowed his head, for well he knew what the god was feeling.

"You have done great wrong," quoth Thor, "and it falls, therefore, upon thee to make all things right again."

The demon agreed, and off he went, leaving a trail of smoke from his always smouldering skin.

“Worry not,” said the Jarl’s son, “if he loves you, he will return. If his heart is in the right place, he will make good what was done wrong, and the two of you can be reunited.”

“Foolish mortal,” quoth Thor, for he was much upset and did not mind his tongue, “do you not know that nothing is gained from nothing? I fear my gain will be your undoing. For so is the world balanced, that not all can be happy if none are sad, and pleasure must be bought, measure by measure, in pain.”

But Sif the fair, the wise, the brave, shook her head and put her hand on his. “Patience, husband. Have you not paid, in tears and wails and night-terrors, far beyond your measure? Has not your friend paid, in turn, his own toll just the same? I say there’s hope yet.”

And just as she had spoken, did the demon return. "I have brought hair of gold to replace that which I took," the demon told the fair couple of Asgard. "But judge me not so harshly. The cruel deed I did for want of Thor - just as he cruelly feigned affection for me, out of want for his fair lady."

“You foolish spirit,” quoth Thor, now stirred by joy, not sorrow, “How you have been misled. Come, live in our castle, be you my pleasure, and cease your homeless wandering."

The tales of gods do not always reach the ears of man unchanged, for the mouths of men are ill formed to re-tell them. But this we know:

In a village to the North, tales are told of a young Jarl, whose arm was made entirely of metal bright as gold and strong as steel, and his warrior companion, tall as the highland trees. Every solstice and every Jól, so it is said, the warrior would fly on the bifrost to the realms of the gods, there to stay four weeks end to end, and when he returned, it was with gifts of gold and silver and iron such as the people in the village had never seen.

Some say the Jarl did not age. Some say the warrior did not either. Others say that when the Jarl died, so did the warrior, in the same night, and thunder rolled like the wings of the Valkyries’ horses over their home.

And some, not many, but there are a few, scattered about the plains and the fjords and the mountains and woods, soothe their children in hushed tones when the storm rages outside like the howls of a demon, and the thunder rolls; “hush, little ones. Listen! They are laughing; these are tears of joy - of the demon, and the god who loves him.”   
  



End file.
